Paradise Restored (1)

My parents ran a small company together.

Back then I never really knew what they did. I know now.

They developed access devices in the virtual reality field, and they seemed to have their hands in a number of government research projects as well.

It wasn't the kind of company that turned enough profit to keep a large staff. So when I was little, my parents were always buried in work. Overtime was a daily fact of life for both of them. There were stretches when they were so busy they had to sleep at the office.

This isn't a story about a child who went unloved, or a son who always came second to the job. My parents never once neglected me. Even in the thick of it, they still made ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the trip home just to see my face. Barely thirty minutes — they took turns carving out the time, cutting into their own sleep, just to share a single meal with me.

I understood that was their love, and so I grew up rather early for my age.

"Son. Your grades dropped quite a bit this time."

"I'm sorry. It isn't that I didn't prepare at all. It was just… harder than I expected."

"Is studying not really your thing?"

"Yeah. A little."

That said, I wasn't exactly a model son either. Both of my parents were elites who'd graduated from prestigious universities. My school grades, on the other hand, never climbed past the middle of the pack no matter how generously you scored them — and it wasn't as if I never studied.

So when my parents finally brought up the word "grades," a word they almost never let pass their lips, I figured this was it. Looking back, the fact that they hadn't said a word until then was almost strange.

"I'm not trying to lecture you. Mom has no interest in acting like those other PTA mothers."

"Mm…"

"Those women carry on as if they can see the future clear as day, but they can't even look at the faces of their own children dying right in front of them. I have no desire to become that kind of parent."

My parents loved me. I believe that without question. Even with so little time, I could be certain of it. They loved me with a ferocity that bordered on the extreme. That must have been why, even on the brink of death, they could say it without a moment's hesitation.

A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠long time has passed, and still that voice alone remains vivid enough to visit me in my dreams.

I love you, my son.

When a person is in pain, what comes out first is a scream. When they're afraid, their breathing turns ragged. When they're anxious, the body curls in on itself. Human death carries all three — pain, terror, and dread. And yet, in the instant before she died, my mother wrapped herself around me without the slightest hesitation. She looked at me with the warmest, most heartbreaking expression in the world. In that gaze, there could not have been room for any other feeling. Her mind must have been filled with nothing but me — not herself.

I was never a child who grew up unloved.

"…I'll try a little harder with my grades."

"No. Before that, let's find something you might actually enjoy. Have you ever thought ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about trying a sport?"

"A sport? Like, taekwondo or baseball? Something like that?"

"Yeah. You know — kids your age do that kind of thing all the time."

"I'm not really interested yet. But… I'm not against it either, so I guess I could give it a try."

Our household was well-off enough. If there was something I wanted to try, we could afford to let me try it without much fuss. Even if I grew up into a thoroughly mediocre adult, there would have been no need to rush.

But the truth is, it wasn't enough. As a child, I wanted so much. I wanted a little more time that didn't feel lonely. When I came home after school, I wanted the house not to be empty. I preferred a home-cooked meal to the delivery food my friends were so crazy about. My parents cared for me with absolute love — but for a greedy child like me, the sheer quantity of it was never enough.

Still… I couldn't complain. No one knew better than I did how hard they were working. I didn't want to make things harder for them with childish whining.

"So, about that — your dad knows a younger guy who teaches kendo. How about going for about a month, just to try it out?"

"Kendo? Okay. When do I start?"

"Well, since we're talking about it — want to go tomorrow?"

"I just show up, right?"

"That's right. I'll let him know ahead of time."

It wasn't as if I had anything better to do. Studying was boring, and I didn't have a hobby I was particularly obsessed with either. Filling the leftover hours with something — anything — didn't seem like such a bad idea.

At the edge of my vision, the bamboo sword moved. The approaching tip wavered strangely — a little unstable. That meant they'd left room to shift their force in another direction. I met the first strike head-on and immediately knocked their blade outward.

Success. A sword without enough power behind it was driven aside, and an opening appeared. My bamboo sword swept into the now-unguarded torso.

Thwack!

A satisfying sound rang out.

"How's our kid doing? Is he any good?"

"…He's got talent. An enormous amount of it. Have you ever considered putting him on a serious competitive track?"

"Oh, Seokwon, you're laying it on too thick. You know I don't just swallow that kind of praise whole~"

"No, I'm serious. I've never seen a case like this."

"My goodness, my goodness. Our boy is that good? Well, it's only because he never wants to do anything — but when he does, he really is something…"

Mom, stop. It's embarrassing just listening to you. I can hear all of this from here.

Anyway, kendo turned out to be more fun than I'd expected. People enjoy the things they're good at. My skill climbed quickly, and with it came genuine interest. I would soon face the first real failure of my life, but looking back, even that was a good experience. For any number of reasons, I came to love kendo.

I trained until I bled. I beat the seniors people said were strong. I became a headache for active competitors. Eventually I got good enough that only about one person was left who could still give me a proper practice match.

Winning felt good. Looking back, I suppose I'd always had an unusually fierce competitive streak, even as a kid.

And… there was something else.

"Son! We're here!"

"Huh? I thought you said you were busy."

"Our son is competing — of course we have to make time somehow. The match hasn't started yet, right?"

"No. My turn's coming up soon."

"Thank goodness. We'll be cheering for you. Go do well, son!"

It was selfish of me. My parents were busy. Even when they were so swamped they barely had time to breathe, they still came to see me. Throwing a tantrum about it would only make things hard for everyone. I'd understood that since I was small. But deep down, I still wished we could have more time together as a family. Back then I was far younger than I am now, and yet I demanded just as much from other ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠people.

For someone like me, a tournament was… a good excuse. Whenever I had an important match, my parents somehow — truly, somehow — cleared a whole day for me.

"You said you were busy. You didn't push yourselves too hard, did you?"

"Push ourselves? Seokwon told us everything. He said today's match is important for you. That means we have to be here, no question."

"I do fine going alone, you know."

"Listen to this child. Do you have any idea how much your father was looking forward to today? And our son really was incredible out there. Could you even see all that? Mom couldn't follow a thing — it was all too fast."

"If you just… concentrate, you can see most of it."

Through adolescence, as my body and mind slowly matured, my parents never made a single exception. On tournament mornings, a light breakfast with salmon. After the matches ended in the afternoon, we always spent the rest of the day together as a family. Sometimes I found them tiresome. Sometimes they embarrassed me. But I never hated them for it.

"If you're too busy, you really don't have to come. It's not like I'm a little kid."

That was a lie. I was so grateful and so happy that you'd come. I'd been looking forward to it too… I just wasn't good enough with words to say so. If only I'd said it once — just once — while you were still alive.

"Don't talk like that. We've never pushed ourselves hard enough to hear that kind of worry from you."

"In moments like these, family has to be there. Whether you're happy because you won, or hurting because you lost — those feelings should never be swallowed up by loneliness."

I don't remember exactly which tournament it was. As I grumbled through my embarrassment, Mom stroked my neck and said those words. Why the neck, I still don't know. All I remember is how warm that soft hand felt as it brushed the left side of my neck.

So — it was the neck.

"This feels awful…"

A sticky, sickening sensation crawled over my whole body, and my neck itched beyond endurance. No one was watching, so I clawed at the left side of my neck with my nails. It hurt — but as the blood welled up, it was warm.

My parents were absolutely part of why I ever picked up a sword. The parents who loved me. The wish to cling a little longer, to be a little more spoiled. Everything of my childhood, my family, my happiness — it was all held inside that blade.

Now, every emotion I had poured into the sword had blackened beyond recognition.

And so I still could not raise it. Before the edge could reach anything dangerous, I shut the game off.